Cold Red
by Tardis-riding Bandit
Summary: oh hai I'm back
1. Red Thought of Them

Cold Red

A fic about the sexiest man on broadcast television. This focuses on him being in the mental hospital, and it just tore me up inside so I made a psycho romance fic.

Disclaimer: If I owned the Mentalist, then Simon Baker and I would be taking epic road trips and being really stupid.

**Red Thought of Them**

I awoke in a hot sweat, shaking. I don't know where I am. I don't know the date. I don't know the time. I don't know who I am. It's hot. I take off this itchy cotton shift and look around. The walls are white, and it's good to know that I still know my colors. The bed is small, like a cot, and it's all white. It's dark outside from a high window, and I get out of bed and stare at it.

The moon. Silver and white, lustrous and full. It is so white it bleaches the inky black sky. I'm starting to hate this white. It burns beyond any heat in existence, melting my skin.

Where am I? I ask myself while sweating rapid-fire bullets. Where is the nearest bathroom? What time is it? Why is it so hard to breathe?

It hurts. My mind is reeling. I'm trying to faint (because some, who I don't for some reason know anymore) because it's good and relaxing but I don't have the will to do it.

Suddenly a door opens in the far corner open, and the dark white room becomes a bright white room. It sears my eyes and I tear up. I want to cry but I'm choked up. I'll focus on breathing.

It's a man in a lab coat with a clipboard. He seems cautious at my appearance but clears his throat as if to speak.

I want to ask where I am. Who I am. Who he is is this a dream? He reaches out towards me as if to shake my hand. Somehow I don't think I could trust this man and I cower.

He notices, clears his throat again and puts his hand away.

"Patrick?"

Is that my name? It sounds so distant, and it can't be mine.

"Patrick," he said it again." I'm Dr. Loweman."

"Where am I?" It comes out in croak.

"You might want to sit down for this."

Nothing registers. There is a chair in the corner that Dr. Loweman goes to sit.

"Patrick?" His voice has hints of sadness and remorse.

"Patrick, I'm sorry."

I'm afraid to speak.

"You are in Valley Grace Hospital."

It's not ringing a bell.

"Two days ago you came home late, and found your wife and daughter murdered."

It all comes back to me in a painful way far too fast and brutal, as if Dr. Loweman took the end of the clipboard and stabbed me in the chest with it.

"Yesterday a neighbor came and found you going into the throes of insomnia and destroying things in your house. He sent you here."

Everything that I knew and wish I'd known and wished I didn't came back and I froze in fright. My name is Patrick Jane. I am 36. I am a failed psychic yet a fantastic manipulator. I can cook. I am a terrible singer. I have a photographic memory. I have a daughter who was killed in her sleep and blood drawn on the walls into a smiley face. The same happened to my wife. Now I'm here in a psychiatric hospital and it hurts to think and the white is rushing into my skull and I don't know what to do except vomit everywhere. I stumble and throw up on the bed. I don't remember eating. It burns and I cry from the pain and from the loss. Dr. Loweman calls for help and I scream my daughter's name I scream my wife's name and I cry that hiccupy cry like a kid who doesn't get his way.

Soon there are nurses holding me down. I don't know why but I don't like it and I try to escape. It is futile and then I feel a pinprick. I know what it is. I scream.


	2. Deep Red Thought

Sorry for the first chapter to be so short. But isn't that protocol?

And God said, "let there be foul language."

And there is, so watch out.

Deep Red Emotion

Anyone who has the depiction of seeing people being tranquilized or sedated in a matter of seconds should get that out of their head. Unless it's elephant tranquilizers (but that's illegal in the mental hospitals, and very inhumane and inhuman). It took me a screaming, harried and painful 35 minutes and 12 seconds to finally calm me down, but it didn't help me.

Dreamless sleep is nonexistent, especially when copious amounts of unknown drugs are swimming in your bloodstream. I had night terrors, one where my daughter was practically begging to be killed because she couldn't stand me. My wife's body turning into a bed of flies. My daughter's eyelids peeled off and having her teeth pulled out one by one, and I had to watch. It was cyclical, and I hadn't the strength to open my eyes. I had to tough it out.

After 6 hours (felt like days) the drugs wore off and my eyes opened. I'm in a different room. I know because the windows are gone. It is dark but I know the room is white.

This is a psychiatric hospital. Of course everything is white.

My mouth is moist and tastes extremely bitter and sharp with chunks of regurgitated food.

Everything that happened hours ago is real.

I get up and walk out the door. It's dark, save for the distant cheap lighting. A guard sits there, plump and dark with glasses and pursed lips reading a book.

"Excuse me." I croaked. The lady looks up, wondering if I should be up or not.

"Can you lead me to the bathroom? I need to wash my mouth out."

"The bathroom's down the hall." She pointed with a long, intricately painted fingernail to the corner.

"Okay. I don't need an escort?"

"It's right down there and there's no window so you can't escape, plus I don't escort men."

It seemed logical, so I didn't bother asking more. I walked in there, no doors on the stalls. Safety protocol. I looked in the mirror. My hair was disheveled, a look that I would've prided myself over because my wife loved the look (as do countless other women).

But she's dead now.

I proceed to wash my mouth out. The water is lukewarm and (perhaps I am crazy) feels like it's softening my teeth. The chunks are out but I'm not satisfied so I do it ten more times.

If only mental hospitals had toothbrushes.

That being done, I walk back out, wave to the guard, who nodded at my existence, and walked back into my room. It is 4:18 am and I'm afraid to go to sleep, but there is no way to pass the time, and my eyelids are still heavy.

Everything that happened hours ago is real.

My mouth is dry but clean.

Everything is still white.

It's a psychiatric hospital.

The drugs still linger but I can fight them off.

They can numb feelings but they don't help.

---

After several hours I have a person wake me up and tell me to take a shower. Good thing, the smell was about to turn me crazy. Crazier than I needed to be in this place.

I get up and walk out of my room. Several other patients were getting up to go take showers. The same guard was here, passing out toothbrushes and tubes of toothpaste. She see me and smirks, or if this was her version of a smile.

"Hey there stinky breath." She jokes. I smile and take one. An orange one with extra-firm bristles. I like it.

"Thank you," I said, a croak still in my throat. "You don't know how much I needed this."

"Gotta keep my charges in check. You go get yourself cleaned honey."

One person I can trust in this place is her.

I follow the stream of patients into the designated washing room. I go into one stall (thankfully with a curtain) and strip off my clothes. A towel hung on the rack behind the faucet. A bar of soap on the dish. I turned on the water. It was ice-cold and it woke me up and I started to scrub furiously. I shake my hair in the water and let it soak. Cold water on my scalp felt so good. I usually never do this but I brushed my teeth in the shower. The taste of stomach acid can't be washed out by mere sink water. I finish brushing my teeth, rinse off then turn off the water. I quickly dry off and wrap myself in the towel. Stepping out, I see guys take out pants and shirts and putting them on. I wonder where they get the underwear.

"In the closet." A man points next to the bins where the clothes are in.

Who honestly made up a system that you get pants and shirts in bins and underwear in the closet?

I have to manipulate myself out of here.

I dress and walk out with the men, who go into a room with a TV on showing sports updates and a table laden with bagels, toast, coffee, juice and fruit.

What is this- a psychiatric hospital or a Motel 6?

Several men are groaning at the sports updates, griping about teams and point conversions, sipping coffee and tearing bagels with their fingers.

Maybe this is rehab.

Next door the women are in line to go into a room. I can see clearly because the wall that separates us is glass. The women sit down to Lifetime, eat the same food as we do, and curl into little balls on the worn sofas and chairs.

I can read them easily. Some have been sexually abused. Some have been ridiculed past due. Others are just mentally unstable, or far too clever or dumb to the world.

I turn to my coffee, bitter and weak. Caffeine is going to be nonexistent because some are on medication and caffeine will counteract with the medication. The thought saddens me.

"Jane?" The guard came in. Her presence makes me want to smile.

"You have an appointment with Dr. Miller."

I get up and follow her out of the room down the hall past the women's room.

"Dr. Miller will be speaking with you for a minute then you can go about your daily activities. Someone will go to your house to get your basic necessities."

"Who?"

"A caretaker under the surveillance of your neighbor. So you'll be having your own clothes, but you won't stay long."

"How long do you think I'll be staying?"

"As long as you need." We get to a door that says 'Dr. Sophia Miller' (it was Sophia right?). The guard opens it and I walk in. A woman, no more than 35, sits at her desk. She is buxom, blonde, and tall. But I see an air of haughtiness in her that I'll know she'll hold back because of my loss.

The thought of that confuses me. Of all people to fake their emotions to patients, it has to be doctors?

"Patrick." She smiles at me. "Please sit."

I sit and stare.

"I know you don't think you should be here, but it's for the best. We want you to be safe."

"From who?"

She paused, not sure how to answer.

"From yourself." She said finally.

I'll never understand that. Protect me from myself? No matter what you do, I'm still here with me damnit. No drug no ambient thought or philosophy will or could change that. Pah.

"Whoever did this to your family wanted to get a rise out of you. Nothing was stolen. Everything was intact. I'm so sorry for you loss. I'm here if you want to talk."

I nodded, only doing this to shut her up and agreeing with myself that this is perpetual bullshit.

This is why I can't stand psychiatrists.


	3. Red Sound of Her

It's Sophie. I get it.

But she was a blonde dude. I know my colors.

IF I WERE A BOY, I WOULD PEE STANDING UP.

I'm here to brighten your day bro.

Red Sound of Her

After meeting with Dr. Miller, the guard came back to escort me. My anger is extinguished by her quiet, yet brash and hospitable attitude.

"You like her?" She asked.

"I've never liked psychiatrists." I said, my brow furrowing.

"Dr. Miller is he most popular of all doctors here, so you best be lucky."

"Sure." I don't like talking to doctors or about them.

"You won't need drugs, so that's good."

"Uh-huh."

"Did she go over the rules with you?"

"No."

"Aight. One, no touching, under any circumstances. They might touch you and you might touch them back in solace, but no, it leads to drama, and I ain't having that in under my watch."

"It's as if we're children."

"I watch the teenage girls and I tell them the same things, y'all gone be treated the same."

"Okay."

"Two. You can talk to women, but don't dwell on they past unless you give the courtesy to apologize or tell them what you in here for."

"Sounds reasonable."

"No leaving the rooms until asked. Got that? Three simple rules you can follow, I heard you were mighty intelligent."

"I got it, and thank you."

"Good honey," she opened the door for me to the group room, where men are on the pay phone talking, others are reading, listening to music, eating or sleeping.

"What's your name?" I asked. "I mean, you've been so good to me and I know nothing about you, not even your name."

"It's Retorica."

"Like rhetorical question?" I couldn't help but grin from ear to ear.

Retorica laughed, that big, obnoxious Deep South laugh that made me feel whole inside.

"Yes honey, it is, now that you mention it. Go sit down, soon it'll be time to go to the library." Retorica leaves and I sit in the room. Women have migrated inside to mingle with the men. I sit, twiddling my thumbs because I need to think.

I haven't watched the news so I don't know if my house is under investigation. Dr. Miller has told me not to dwell on it. Normally I wouldn't listen (I usually don't), but for once a psychiatrist is right.

So I don't. I watch a college basketball game with a frizzy haired yet pleasant looking woman and three other guys. On the table is a Carla Neggers (Neggers or Neggars? No matter) book so I start flipping through it. This white cotton shift is starting to make me sweat. The heat is overwhelming. The cold shower from this morning seems almost imaginary.

I finish the book (some hotshot police girl with a lesbian name who chain-smokes and drinks meets a troubled deacon with a hairy chest they have sex while she solves a predictable murder mystery) I knew the nun killed the priest and set fire to the office.

Carla, for Gods' sake develop better plots. That's why your books are only sold in pharmacy stores (CRUEL PATRICK)

A couple of hours later Retorica comes back.

"Y'all ready to go to the library?" She asks.

"We wanna watch the game." The people near the T.V. whined. Effects of the drugs they're on, hopefully.

"One team wins, there, spoiled it for you. Come on now."

Men and women trudge behind her, groaning. I jump up from my seat and follow.

I look around the place that would become my home for several days. White white beige a brown cross on the wall several counters with a nurse dishing out medication to teenage girls while boys are lined up to go to a gym. The boys and girls are supposed to be separate because they are more "dangerous" than we are.

I know many things while understanding them as well, but I'll never understand this.

The library is large, and I like it. Second-hand books litter the shelves. I like second-hand books. Usually they're good but other people don't see their value.

I'm glad to be around to give them another chance.

I look around, smiling slightly at the women who go to the Romance section. My wife used to buy those because she, like me, saw the pattern in all of them: some fair maiden who either is the maid or coworker to some billionaire with dark hair, muscled, hairy chest, and freakishly conceited. The sex scenes were all the same, "the manhood, for Gods' sake!" My wife would laugh. "The valley slope of her breasts, oh man people who can't write shouldn't write."

The thought of my wife's laughter drops my smile instantly. I blink back tears, shake my head and walk past the mystery section. I look around; find a tattered copy of a wizard book. I know I'm not going to like it, but I need to pass the time so it'll seem timeless when I get out of here.

I sit at a table in the section. A woman bent over a book with headphones in her ear blaring an angry classical song. She was reading a medieval war story and subconsciously chewing her thumb. She looks at me from the corner of her eye then flicked her eyes back to her book.

"You don't mind if I sit here?" I ask.

"Nah," She said softly, not looking up. I sit down and began reading. Ten pages in some kid finds a staff and travels back in time. I could care less.

"So what are you in here for?"

The voice was so commanding, yet so calm and cool I looked up and blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"What. Are. You. In. Here. For." The woman puts down her book and stares intently at me. "Like I know what happened to your family but I wonder what for. You weren't going to commit suicide or anything."

"How did you know?"

The woman's eyes practically glowed.

"I know everything."

"Must be mentally taxing."

"It is, that's why I'm in here."

"Oh. To be honest, I don't know or remember why I'm in here. How I got here, and really, where did you find out about my family? Was it on the news?"

"It was." The woman wrinkled her nose at this, probably wishing she didn't talk about this to me.

"Exactly," I didn't know how to put this in words, "What did you do to-"

"I stabbed some guy with a pencil."

My eyes widened. The woman grinned, suddenly sitting next to me. We are really close, and her skin radiated coolness because our fingers were touching.

"I'm an interpreter for this big corporate firm," she began. "I was continuously harassed by this hotshot accountant, kept trying to get in my pants and making lewd comments about me being Asian."

I just noticed her bookish look, almond-shaped eyes and freckles. If you looked closely, her eyes were gray.

"Like, 'isn't it funny you should crunching these numbers instead of translating languages', really annoying. So one day, he tries to make another pass, and I'm _fed up_ beyond comprehension. So he tries to put his hand up my shirt and I whirl around, a pencil in my hand, and stab him in the dick."

I gulped. The woman laughed.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, just, yeah. The guy files a complaint but gets fired, but the boss thinks I'm a danger so he sends me here, because apparently an Asian woman finding shrewd utensils for weapons makes her a ninja and a threat to society." She giggled.

"Oh, so he automatically thinks your crazy?"

"No, but he wants to make sure I'm no harm. He keeps a job open for me, and watches my back because I come from a prominent family that he knows well."

"Well, that's good. How long have you been here?"

"Two months."

My look must've given her another opportunity to speak.

"C'mon," she added, "I stab a guy in the dick with a _pencil_, I don't just stay here for a week. That was severe. I'm lucky I got this place instead of jail."

She was right. Her upbeat personality and ability to open up to strangers tells me that this place wasn't so bad. I smiled, my eyes burning with the possibility of tears coming.

She notices, pats my hand. It is soothing. I notice how large her hospital band is around her wrist. Her hands are slim and fragile.

"I hope the guy is caught." She said softly.

"Dr. Miller told me that the guy tried to get a rise out of me, because nothing was taken-"

"Except for you wife and daughter's lives."

She was so blunt at this I almost slapped her. But she was right, and there's no reason to hurt her.

"Thank you," is all I say.

"Nothing to it. If you don't trust the doctors, like I do, or the patients like I do as well with personal tidbits, I'll be happy to listen. I'll never tell anyone, okay?"

"Thank you." I say again.

"Diana Nguyen." She holds out her hand to shake. I take it. It's so cold and I like it.

"Patrick Jane."

"Silly name, but it's nice." Diana looks at the book I'm reading and gives me a look.

"That's a kiddie book you know right?"

"Yes I just don't know what else to read."

"Well another thing I can help you with! I can sniff out a good book in here like a pig sniffs out truffles. Let me go find you one." She gets up and starts skimming the shelves. Watching her work is almost comforting, like watching my wife in the kitchen trying to reach for the salt in the cupboard.

The thought is excruciating, and a lone tear escapes my cheek.

I could get used to this place, but I know this isn't good for me.


	4. Seeing Red

Breakdown time. Just warning you.

Seeing Red

I've been here for two days and no word about the investigation. I've begun to lose hope, feeling it slip through the crevices of my fingers.

The more I think about them the more I sweat, the more I shake. The more I cry hot and shameful tears.

It's sinking into me that I'll never see them again.

I won't go to my daughter's dance recitals.

I won't hug my wife at night.

I won't buy Jonas Brothers CDs for Christmas.

There will be no more family dinners.

No more waking up my daughter so she won't be late for school.

No hugs.

No kisses.

No smiles.

I won't see them. Ever.

Not even at their funeral.

I think about this at night, because I don't want to cause a scene in front of the patients.

I don't think I'll ever sleep.

I stare at the wall, suddenly thinking I'm staring at the moon. I imagine it's still a full moon, gleaming in its celestial wonder.

I'll bet it's laughing at me, at my failure, at my status, how look I've sunk and how high and immortal it is.

I know I'm not on drugs but at this point I'll believe anything. I must be, because I think a moon which I can't see is talking to me.

My sadness turns to grief turns to humiliation to anger.

I punch the wall, jolts of pain coursing through my knuckles fingers my arm. I bite my lip to keep myself from screaming but a moan escapes and tears stream down my face. I drop to my knees, curling into a ball.

The moon still laughs, boasting how it controls the tides and how it lights the dark while I am in the fetal position in a mental hospital and feel the imaginary blows to my body.

I've never felt more weak than ever.

Go away. I shout in my head. The moon just laughs.

I jump into my bed, going under the covers and putting the pillow over my head. The taunts are even louder.

"Stop! Stop! Get out of my head! Stop laughing!" I scream into the pillow.

It is nonstop. Splashes of red, each deeper than the last shine in my eyes. A big smiley face flashes behind my eyelids and I'm momentarily blinded.

I feel like I'm about to vomit, but I'm not wanting another needle, so I swallow the lump in my throat. I am burning up and I try to take off my clothes but they're heavy and I'm tangled and the shirt is wrapped around my throat I just strangled myself I'm losing air my limbs are heavy and moon is laughing.

I feel weaker and I'm choking on my tears. I'm in a mess of sheets and I'm losing an imaginary battle.

My eyelids droop and I'm slipping away.

I died.

And the moon continues to laugh.

---

I feel someone squeezing my arm. Someone is taking my blood pressure.

Apparently I lived, and the moon had given me mercy.

"You okay dude?" It's a white guy with a pierced ear and bleached eyebrows and dyed black hair.

This state of California has stressed individuality, but I think it's gone too far.

"Ugh," I groaned. I wipe my eyes. "What time is it?"

"5:33 am."

"Why so early?"

"I don't know. This place is filled with secrets." The man takes off the band and blood flows into my forearm. I flex my muscles in relief.

"You'll be woken up in three hours. Go back to sleep."

Fat chance.

The guy turns off the light and my eyes feel the cold embrace of the dark. I can sleep, but I know it's going to be rough.

---

This is my routine.

Someone wakes me up.

Retorica hands me a toothbrush. It'll be red or green or blue. It's green today.

I soak myself in cold water until I'm shivering, almost forgetting to wash my body with soap.

I have my own clothes now. So I'll dress in a casual shirt and jeans.

I'll head into the group room where I'll eat untoasted toast and bland fruit and wash it all down with weak and cheap coffee.

I'll go to the library with Diana, who seems to keep true to her word when it comes to talking and finding a decent book for me. Today it's a book about a gay man becoming a writer in Alaska with all the salmon. Surprisingly it's a wonderful read, light and humorous with a lesbian sidekick (I know they're back).

Diana has her music out again. It's this device called a Zune. My wife was talking about getting one because her iPod died out again.

I push that thought away as quickly as I can.

Diana has a range of tastes, mostly electronica, cute trance, raver's fantasy, dance music, but there's Norwegian death metal, freelance jazz, classical and soundtracks of musicals and video games.

We're listening to Elder Scrolls' All's Well by Jeremy Soule. It is calming and I feel as if I'm floating.

"I used to be a music major in college," she said. "But I switched. The professors were showing me all these languages I could learn during my years."

Diana told me about her life. She was born in Texas to a Vietnamese father and a Japanese mother. Her father is the president of a shipping business. She is 32. She skipped the 3rd and 4th grade. She has a photographic memory and an IQ of 188. She was in the marching band as part of the drumline. She played quads. She became a drum major. She got a full-ride scholarship to Texas Tech University and did graduate school in New York. She did her internship for the company she works at in Germany. She speaks fluent Japanese, Tagalog, Italian, Spanish, German, Chinese, Vietnamese and Thai. She is a mega-gamer, likes to LARP (if you do not know what that is, I suggest you go jump off a cliff, maybe. Live Action Roleplay). She spends her weekends at anime conventions. She's never had a boyfriend. She can speak proficient Al Bhed.

"What?" I have no idea what that is.

"You wouldn't, unless you played Final Fantasy. E ghuf oui sicd drehg E's faent, pid rao, dryd'c fro E's rana."

"_What_?"

"I don't feel like translating."

Her ability to make me flabbergasted (because I never am) makes me laugh. It is soft at first, but then I couldn't help myself. I start laughing uncontrollably. I throw my head back and just laugh.

Luckily no one but Diana and the two guards were in here. One came to see what was the matter but Diana told him it was okay.

I don't know why I am laughing. Tears are streaming down my face and I'm in hysterics.

Diana shushes me and gives the guards a nervous smile.

"It's okay," she said. "He's just letting go."

"I'm fine." I cried. "Just being stupid." I wiped my eyes and focused on the music in my ear.

"It's 'Dusk at the Market' by Jeremy Soule," Diana tells me, squeezing my hand.

It's so cold, so small, so soft. I smile weakly at the gesture.

"I consider you a friend in here." She says.

"You do? We've only talked a couple of times."

"Still. I need a friend, you seem so real than the other people out there."

I smiled again. "Maybe _they_ should be in the mental hospital."

"Exactly."

I laughed, then turned serious. "Even though this place is soothing, only because of you and Retorica-"

"Retorica is Jesus."

I held back more laughter. Diana, the goddess of interruption.

"But I can't help feeling ashamed, even though this wasn't my idea. I wish none of this ever happened." I jumped slightly because the song changed into a loud techno song.

"Sorry," Diana turns it down. "DJ Tiësto's 'Forever Today'. Surprises even me."

We continue reading, as if nothing ever happened. When it was time to go it either is lunchtime (chicken fingers or soup from a can) or we go speak with the teen girls about college (surprisingly, out of the twenty eight patients only 3 have been to college). We try to talk them out of drinking, sex, drugs, violence.

I don't think it'll work but it's worth a try.

Diana has to go supervise the group of girls who are off GSP (General Suicide Precaution) so they can go do their schoolwork. I have to go talk with Dr. Miller. We say goodbye, touch fingers and leave on opposite ends of the halls.

And I'm alone.

I make a quick trip to the bathroom, sweating profusely. I look into the mirror. I'm thinner than before. My hair is springy. My face is on the verge of gaunt and I'm pale.

I hug myself as if I'm cold but I know I'm far from it. I turn on the faucet and splash my face with cold water. It's not working so I keep doing but no use. I turn off the faucet and look at my hands. To me they are thin, and the wedding band on my finger is blurred in my vision. Tears run down my cheeks as shake some more.

This is bad.

I am crumbling away.

The world is crumbling away. I can feel it right beneath my feet.


	5. Red Hot Realization

Oh hey it's back. JTHM references. Patrick gets a new frenemy. Diana rant.

Yup.

Red Hot Realization

Dinner. It's chalky mashed potatoes with gluey gravy and soggy beef and peas from a can, My spoon in the gravy sticks up and that tells me I shouldn't eat it. Some don't notice they just eat it this might be the best meal they've ever eaten.

Diana sits at the table with the other women. She notices my spoon sticking up and laughs. She didn't get what I got she just got a salad and four cups of ice. She's nodding her head to music that she's sharing with the frizz-haired woman who has a serious twitching problem.

I dump my food and sit back down, running my fingers through my hair. It's so tangled that when I finally got my hands out strands of hair were pulled out.

I sit there, playing the 'don't blink game with Diana who wins every time. She mouths to me what kind of music I like I mouth back oldies. She giggles and calls me an old salt.

_Squinty Eyes._

_Laughter._

_Man, if I had a nickel for every time I heard that._

_What are you listening to_? Diana quickly looks down to check.

_99 Luftballoons by Nena_, she says.

_Old school._

Diana starts mouthing the lyrics, which I can't understand because it's in German.

_What are you saying_?

_I'm singing you jerkwad._

No one has ever called me that. It's funny.

The guard tells us it's time to leave. He lines us up so we can go. He pulls me aside.

"You have an appointment with Dr. Miller." He says.

I don't bother with his name.

Dr. Miller was really kind and tried to make me feel as comfortable as I could be in a mental hospital, but she tried to make me think about my family.

He leads me to Dr. Miller's office and I catch a glimpse of Diana glancing at the door then at me.

The door closes and I turn to Dr. Miller who looks up from her paperwork.

Something seemed different about her.

Last time I saw her was yesterday but I was in such a haze I just blurred right through it. I "saw" her my first day when I was drugged.

She was blonde now she's brunette.

"Why are you giving me that look?" She asked.

"Your hair."

"What about it?"

"It's brown."

"It's always been."

"When I first met you you were blonde."

"No, I wasn't."

I shrugged. Must've been the drugs (Kathiann crisis averted XD). I've been awry at the time.

"You looked better blonde."

Dr. Miller rolls her eyes but I can see she took note of that.

"How are you feeling Patrick?"

"I feel exhausted, starved, and angry."

"Why are you angry Patrick?" Like other psychiatrists, she disregards the two surfacing emotions and goes for the one that isn't that important.

I express that thought to her.

"Don't get defensive with me, Patrick." She snaps, immediately setting the line between patient and doctor.

"It's just that you don't bother with the surfacing emotions feelings that have been eating away inside of me."

"I'm here to listen to your emotions regarding your family, then we can talk about the other emotions."

At least she was honest.

"I won't talk about them."

"The longer you wait the more time you spend in here."

I hate it when she calls the shots.

She sees my hopeless expression and complies.

"Why are you exhausted?"

I look at her. I don't know where to begin.

"Is it because you're used to sleeping with your wife by your side?"

Here she goes again. But I accept this and start.

"It probably is," I said slowly. "When I try to go to sleep, I keep seeing the moon."

"Why?"

"I don't know. It keeps coming, always full, always there. It _speaks_ to me."

"Speaks to you?"

"Yes, ringing in my ears. It taunts at my failure, how low and weak I've become."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"I just toughed it out."

"Patrick-"

"I've been having night terrors." I'm shaking now, arms roiling with oncoming sweat.

"You do?"

"One where my wife's body turning into a bed of flies my daughter's eyelids peeled off-" I literally put both hands on my mouth to shut myself up. Dr. Miller has a look on her face that clamps my eyes.

I'm squeezing my eyes and tears come out. I can feel them, sizzling on my skin. I feel Dr. Miller's hand on my shoulder. I'm shaking.

"Patrick."

Shaking as if I'm freezing. Burning to the touch.

"Patrick, look at me."

I force my eyes open but my hands stay to my face.

She rubs my back and I take slow deep breaths. I just realized I was hyperventilating.

"It'll pass. You have night terrors and it's scary. I won't ask anymore." Her hand squeezes my shoulder.

"Want to tell me why you're starving?"

I put my hands down, wiping my eyes occasionally.

"The food doesn't stay in?"

"It's disgusting." I said. "What's the point of cooking it?"

"If you want I can put you on the Jell-O and Sprite diet (legitimate psychiatric diet. You lose weights fast!) You want that or pudding?"

"What kind of pudding?"

"Vanilla."

"Oh God no."

"Jell-O then." Dr. Miller goes to her desk and pulls out a tablet, opens one and hands it to me.

It was small and pink, no bigger than half of a birth control pill. I grasp it between the tips of my fingers and stare at it in my hand.

"I want to take this while you're here." She says.

I passively put in my mouth. My tongue breaks it instantly.

"I know you're here because of an unspeakable loss, but you're going through a rough time and I want you to be safe. This will take off the edges. Only once a day.

"I want you to feel safe while you're here. I want you to be unafraid."

I nodded, agreeing with everything and everyone because I have stooped so low as to be on meds.

I don't need them. Dr. Miller knows I don't need to be on them.

And still I have them.

"Will you promise to talk to me whenever you have a problem?"

I nodded. So meek, like a child.

"I want you to smile."

Haven't I smiled while I've been here? Not around her, now that I've thought about it.

Dr. Miller excuses me and I leave. My movements are jumpy as the guard opens the door and leads me to the group room where the patients are talking. I sit next to Diana who is curled up in a chair.

Suddenly I'm smiling. I can feel the muscles lift up into my trademark grin. I'm lightly rocking back and forth, patting my thighs to some unknown rhythm.

Retorica is gone, and in her place is the guard is Madeline, a spongy-faced red head with skin conditions and muscles like a wrestler.

They hire these people not for looks, charisma or skills they hire them so in case a patient goes crazy they can assess the situation and prevent escape.

The thought would scare me but this tiny (and EXTREMELY powerful) pill makes me smile even more.

Madeline is tough yet she means well.

"Diana," she says, her voice raspy from possible smoking or taking blows to the trachea.

"Let's talk about why you're here."

Diana is chewing her thumb again. She must've known they'll be getting to her. They spend group time after dinner on one person a day. Must be her turn.

"What do you want to know?" She said, looking off to space.

"Why you are who you are."

"Why I'm here you mean."

"Why not."

"This guy kept making passes at me."

"You didn't like him I suppose."

"Pompous jerk from Yale."

"People from Yale end up to be pompous jerks." I cut in (no offense to the people who went to Yale. What's there anyways?) Diana looks at me from the corner of her eye. I giggle she just rolls her eyes.

"When you first met him what was he like?"

"He was, in short, an asshole. Living off of Daddy's Trust Fund. Slept with every girl in the department."

"Except you."

"Of course."

"Maybe he genuinely likes you."

Diana snorted. "Hah! He's a Republican who thinks I'm going to bomb my corporation because I'm half Japanese or I'm going to machete the whole staff because I'm half Vietnamese."

"What has he done to you?"

"Racially degraded me-"

"Just turn the other cheek-"

"Easy for you to say, you're white. You don't know _half_ of the shit I go through. Don't say you do because of your looks, that's your choice that you didn't take care of yourself. You can go to the doctor and fix all that. Me? I have no choice but to be Asian. I'm genetically fucked from day one."

"You have pretty skin." I mused. Diana is simmering with anger but she just closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose.

"And he tried to get in your pants?" Madeline changes he subject she means well. Diana nodded.

"Then he went into your office and put his hand under your shirt-"

"Yes yes and did and as an _accidental reflex_ (oh those exist dude) I stab him in the dick! Guilty you may call me! Saying it's a crime against humanity? Would you prefer I stabbed him in the face? In the neck? The heart? I've heard he's recovering rapidly and he can't press charges because he harassed me first."

All the women patients said amen and the guy patients swore and clutched their crotches. I just rock back and forth and smile.

"Tell us about yourself." Madeline says.

"Like what?"

"Why you are who you are."

"Didn't I just answer that?"

"I mean about your beliefs, your goals, your desires, things that make you happy."

"Am I some sort of experiment?"

"To me, no."

Diana rubbed her eyes. She seemed more worn and the freckles around her nose seemed more prominent. The pill wants me to kiss each one of them.

"I believe in science." She said.

"Like Scientology?"

"Merlin no. I believe in facts, what I see, what I know. Sometimes

I'll believe in magic, sometimes I'll believe in Gods sometimes I'll believe in the fuckin _Muffin Man_ but in the end what always comes out on top is science."

"Goals?"

"None."

"None? Not even one like to get out of here?"

"No."

"Would you do something for me? Would you make a goal for me tomorrow?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"If I did, it'll be one just to shut you up. I have no goals I don't make goals and I never have and I don't plan on it."

Madeline made a face. Diana looks at me. Her eyes are grayer. The pill makes me grin uncontrollably but I want to be there and comfort Diana. I can't. She mouths what the fuck are you on the pill can't read her lips.

I giggle. I'm so high. "I don't know what you're saying." I whisper. This isn't me this is the pill the pill's voice.

"Patrick?" Madeline notices. "Are you okay?"

"Oh sure," the pill says. "Just Dr. Miller gave me a pill. A little tiny pill. Tiny pink pill. So small." The pill shows her just how small he is. "Powerful pill." The pill giggles. (I know what the pill does, as I have been on it while I was in the hospital)

Madeline shrugged. Diana gives me a look her mask is slipping and showing me she's horrified.

"What do you like to do?" Madeline asks.

"I like to read." Diana tears her eyes away. She's being extremely vague.

"Like what?"

"Philosophy, science fiction, fantasy, mythology, gay romances."

"Are you gay?"

"No, I just find the sex scenes humorous."

"Do you find sex humorous?"

"Absolutely. Desire is the cause of all of your problems. I don't see what's the big deal about sex. Is it worth the 45 minutes of exertion and humiliation? I'm not even going to find out. That shit's just breaking and entering." (Amen)

Several of the patients laugh including me and the pill. I can see the humor in that.

"Have you ever been with another man?"

"No. I would have nothing to do with the submission to physical longing, all seek to enslave you, and I've got more things to worry about. _Flesh does not motivate me. No, mine is a penetration beyond the veil of the flesh_." She's quoting the Fly. I'm probably the only one who noted that.

"Everyone has desires, Diana." Madeline said.

The pill and I don't know whose side to be on.

"I don't." Diana said simply.

"You don't think you do, but you do. Soon you'll give in to your desires like the rest of us. You'll be hungry for it. It's only human."

"Then I'll forget my stomach if I'm hungry! Shut off my want if I'm lonely! Gouge out my reproductive if I even become the slightest bit aroused! Excess! So much excess! It's superfluous nonsense and I want nothing to do with it.

"I'm a slave to nothing."

Madeline blinked. Then she said, "You're always a slave to something, by choice or no."

Group time had ended five minutes ago, we could do free time until 11:00 which was bedtime. It was 8:35. Diana takes out her Zune and gives me an earbud. I put in the earbud and she goes to play some trance. I don't bother to talk I just listen.

I ponder on the discussion that just occurred Diana who she is because she knows everything. She refuses to give in to such desires and won't do anything she doesn't want to do. She isn't a slave to anything. I can see that.

If she were me, she'll demand justice and see t that the perpetrator is caught.

She wouldn't become so desperate as to do whatever the killer wants her to do to the point of extreme humiliation and insanity just to see her family one last time.

Like I would do.


	6. Red Filters Through

The pill that Patrick's on is Celexa. I would know what kind of shit he would go through because I myself have been on it.

It's more than a trip man, it's a flaming adventure that I rather not go on again.

Kiddie time.

How about I keep the author notes in, and you'll just endure?

The Red Filters Through

I didn't sleep at night. The pill is beyond powerful it is nuclear. I counted 2 680 sheep recited the alphabet forwards backwards diagonally. I even talked to the pill asked it why it's so small yet so powerful.

I'm talking to a pill that is long dissolved in my stomach. It manifests itself in my bloodstream I can feel it dancing.

Retorica was there. I opened my door and peeked through. She sees me.

"Hey baby." She said, waving with her nails. They are aqua with pink lightning bolts. "Retorica." Again I sound high. It's a pathetic attempt to whisper. "You got your nails done."

"You like them?"

"They're so pretty." I take my chair from my room and bring it outside my room so I can sit across from her.

"You okay sweetie? You seem pretty baked." She leans in. I lean in as well, trying not to be so eager. "You on weed?" She raises an eyebrow.

I giggle. "I'm on this pill that Dr. Miller gave me. I haven't eaten I can't stop smiling I can't sleep and this fuckin pill is _alive_." I try to sound scared but it sounds like I'm boasting.

Retorica peers hard at me. I try to mimic the look but it's no use I start laughing.

"Try to get some sleep baby." She says.

"I can't." I whine the pill sings. "It's this pill." My foot is tapping the pill is having a rave in my veins.

"You want to talk?" Retorica puts her book down.

I want to know more about her and so does the pill so she tells us about herself. She's 41 with 2 sons, Lucas a junior in high school and Davonte, an eight year old in love with rocket ships. She went to UCLA for two years then dropped out. She likes romance movies and going to church. Jazz and gospel are her favorite types of music. Her birthday is January 22nd. It's 4:31 am and Retorica tells me to go back to my room and try to get some sleep. I go back in my room and count 566 more sheep but I forgot what comes after 566 so I quit. I nodded my head to the last song I listened to with Diana that rang in my ear.

"… _What I wouldn't give to be December Boys again_." I'm singing aloud.

"Patrick." It's Retorica.

"Yeah?"

"You better get to sleep."

"Okay." I sound like a kid.

I'm still awake by the time the guy with the mismatched hair color comes along. He takes my blood pressure I complain.

When he leaves I start to feel tired. He turns off the light and I drift off to, for once, dreamless sleep.

I only slept for two hours when someone wakes me up.

"Shower." He barks.

"Do I have to?" I whined into my pillow.

"You need to clean yourself. C'mon." He comes to lift me up.

"No no I got it." I lift myself up and blindly grab a fresh pair of clothes. It's a Berkley University of California sweat shirt and jeans. Did I even go to Berkeley? I think it's my wife's.

I shower with the cold water. I'm rinsing my eyes and it burns but that means its working. I dress then go to the sink and brush my teeth.

Today is Friday. The patients are as giddy as schoolchildren on the playground. As long as a guard is present we could go wherever we pleased in the hospital.

I'm not so giddy. Breakfast is oily and bland sausages and runny eggs. It's disgusting but I eat it.

Would very much like to have my Jell-O and Sprite diet please and thank you.

Since we had no schedule I meet up with Diana in the hallway who is taking her meds at the fountain. She sees me and does a Spock sign.

"Hey." She sees my droopy eyes and ashen face. "What happened to you?"

"I didn't sleep at all. I slept for maybe two hours."

"Aww dude." She takes my hand. Her fingers are like ice and it's so soothing.

I try to keep myself from taking her arm and ripping it off.

"Want to go do arts and crafts?"

"Arts and crafts?"

"Yeah, macaroni art and coloring castle pages what else is there?"

"Okay." Arts and crafts seemed slow enough for me to keep track of.

We get James, the 19-year old guard with seven piercings. I counted and Diana counted. He sees us holding hands and frowns because we're not supposed to touch but this rule is loosely enforced and no one cares. He takes us to this room that had four teenage girls drawing cupcakes and coloring unicorns.

I'm in Lala Land and the gate to the World is locked.

We sit and watch girls do beading. I feel pretty stupid. Diana is talking to some girl named Chelsea and I still hold her hand.

"What do you want to do?" She asks me.

"Uh, wanna make charm bracelets?" I slip into a gay lisp and it's far too good and she laughs.

"I think we should color and do charm bracelets."

"I wanna color the princess in the fields." I'm still in the gay accent and I panic because I'm thinking the pill is back.

"I need to get out of this accent." Panic seeps through and Diana hears it.

"Oh nein, is it the pill?"

"I hope not," I shake my head. The lisp is gone. I shouldn't do impersonations. Diana brought out string and coloring sheets. I grasped her hand again as if in desperation.

"Dude I'm going to do a bracelet let go." She wriggles free and starts to weave. Blue orange yellow green brown purple pink black silver. After five rows she isn't pleased and discards it and turns to different shades of blue. Cerulean cadet navy robin's egg sky baby light corn dark. I fish her Zune out of her pocket and turn it on. She still doesn't say anything, but takes one earbud and puts it in her ear, not looking up from her work.

It's 'Public Pervert' by Interpol and I turn to the page. It's a maiden with that stupid cone hat, but it's a princess, and she reminds me of my daughter.

No. Fuck no. I'm going to do this princess and no memory of my daughter dressing up as a gaudy princess is going to stop me.

Though it might.

She is obviously a blonde so I plan to make her a brunette. I color the grass green and the sky blue and sun yellow. If they were any other color then I don't know how my mind will be able to comprehend that.

I color the princess' dress pink and purple. I've never felt more gay than now, but at this point it really doesn't matter. I'm widowed, free from the happy shackles of marital bondage. No one really appeals to me, so it's not as if my sexuality is even questioned, and no one could even figure out what I was even thinking about, though Diana has a knack for reading minds and asking pivotal questions.

She was talking to a girl named Felicia, and she didn't look at me. I continue to color, my IQ slipping down a slope. [and the slope is sprayed with Pam. Had to be in there]

I color her hair a dark drown and her eyes green. My wife had blonde hair and brown eyes. Diana sees the picture and giggles.

"Patrick Jane, also known as Bob Ross." She says, smiling.

"She looks like a vampire, doesn't she?" I shake my hand from the strain.

"Yeah because her skin is white. Bleargh, change it."

"Can we go to the library afterwards?"

"I wanna color the dragon."

"Okay."

Diana peers hard at me.

"What?" I automatically knew she was reading me.

"If you become a homo then when we get out of here you're taking me shopping."

See? Without fail.

Diana finishes the bracelet and hands it to me.

This is also another rule broken. Strings of any kind are prohibited because one could hang himself.

They knew that I wouldn't kill myself so they couldn't say much.

"Thanks." A genuine act of kindness I haven't seen much since I was here. I looked at her, for once noticing her clothes. A black wool sweater with a wife beater under it and jeans with slippers. She looked like a girl, I knew she was but I never noticed it.

"Whoa."

"What?"

"You're a girl."

Diana blinked. "You're noticing this now?"

"Yeah. Note, by doing arts and crafts my I.Q. is slipping."

"But, you've only been coloring for seven minutes. We've known each other for, how many days?"

"4 days."

"And you didn't notice?"

"Nope."

Diana nods, and just turns back to her picture. It's a cheesy dragon and it's lighting a birthday cake with its breath. Without noticing I pick up the red pencil. I see its iridescent crimson spilling out of my fingers. I froze in horror as I watch the color drip out of my hands and spray across Diana but she doesn't notice. I suddenly throw the pencil across the table, shaking and sweating. Diana sees, confused. She sees my face and automatically understands.

"You want to leave?" She asks. Young, foolish and naïve eyes are on us and drilling into my skull.

"What about your dragon?" I'm squeezing my eyes again.

"It can wait. C'mon, want to go to the library?"

I was about to say yes until the door opened. It's James again. He looks at me and rolls his eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" He's not concerned about me.

"N-nothing. Just, t-t-tired." I can't control the stammering.

"C'mon, you have an appointment with Dr. Miller."

My face falls. There's no point in hiding that. Diana helps me up.

"Where are you going?" James asks her.

"I'm going to the library."

James groans. "Alright, let's go you two." He doesn't notice the bracelet, but I take it off anyway.

Diana doesn't say anything.

I'm burning up. I want to take off these clothes, but I have to ask permission in order to take off my sweatshirt, and James will say no. I just know it.

We stop at Dr. Miller's door and I open it without looking at Diana. I fear I'll just rip her arm off if I touch her or even look at her.

I'm not in love. No point in loving anymore.

Dr. Miller is sitting at her desk. She is still brunette, and I thought I told her she was better blonde.

She looks up. "Hello Patrick." You are trying to sound nice, but it fails miserably.

"How was the Celexa?"

"That little devil?" I spat. I'm well over the stuttering phase. "I don't want to be on it."

"What's wrong with it?"

"I haven't gotten any sleep last night. I was _high_, acting really happy-go-lucky. I don't like that feeling."

"Why don't you like that feeling?"

"Because it's superficial! I'm not supposed to be giggling! For God's sake, I was _giggling_, you only do that when you're high!" I exploded. When you don't sleep for hours, wouldn't you?

"Patrick, calm down. When you're introduced to a new drug, it makes you feel funny. It's a starting to work."

"Making me feel giddy and powerless means it's working?"

"Well, you shouldn't fight the medicine. It's supposed to help you deal with your emotions while you grieve."

"Aren't I supposed to be bawling like a whiny bitch with a skinned knee when I grieve?" I've been around Diana a lot. She's rubbing off on me.

"When you put it that way, no. Grieving in Valley Grace has varying effects. Either you uplift someone's spirits, or you send them off on a murderous rampage. Medication helps you grieve in a manner that no one will know and there will be no consequences."

"But I don't _like _it." I whined. Exploding and whining, is what I've evolved into.

"Patrick, you wouldn't think I'd harm you, would you?"

"Yes," I said without hesitation. "I actually think you will."

"But I'm not." She takes the pill bottle and hands me another capsule. Tiny and pink, I take one with my nail. I grimace.

"As your doctor, I advise you to take it until the side effects are gone."

I take it again. Damnit. Damn it all.

"If I'm a crazy nutso, I'm suing your ass." I said.

Dr. Miller just nods.


End file.
